


In the Hall of the Dragon King

by whirligigged



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drugs Made Them Do It, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Imbalance, Team Gluttony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:59:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirligigged/pseuds/whirligigged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king isn’t only the symbol of Albion's magic, Father told him. The Dragon King <i>is</i> magic, holds the power of the land in his blood. Arthur will spill that blood. </p><p>Fair is fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hall of the Dragon King

**Author's Note:**

> Written for summerpornathon 2011, week 2. The challenge was "Kink Grab Bag," and I chose non-con/dub-con. 
> 
> Note that this fic includes extremely dubious consent at best, involving sexually explicit scenes with characters under the influence.

“Drugged,” says Arthur, staring into the dregs of his goblet. 

Gwaine claps him on the shoulder. It reverberates through his body like a song. Arthur _doesn’t_ groan. “Relaxes you, mate. Tonight’s your reward, remember!” 

“Right.” Arthur attempts to sound knowledgable, instead of like his hard-on is about to lift the table.

Gwaine winks broadly. 

Apparently a rite between king and knight alone, he'd believed the pledging his perfect opportunity. The grueling, days-long tournament was supposed to be the _hard_ part, he mourns, trying not to notice how amazing his trouser seams suddenly feel on his dick.

*

Alone, he checks the knife hidden in his boot. 

He palms his dick for good measure, and stumbles up the stairwell. 

*

Magic kills. 

The king isn’t only the symbol of Albion's magic, Father told him. The Dragon King _is_ magic, holds the power of the land in his blood. Arthur will spill that blood. 

Fair is fair. 

He remembers thinking this very hard, and then he remembers the king stroking his tongue along Arthur's collarbone, sending _warm wet yes_ straight to his groin. He's not sure where his knife went—he's not wearing his boots. Or his shirt.

“Sire,” he breathes. He means, Wait. Stop. 

The king runs his long fingers down Arthur’s chest, pausing to pinch his nipples. His cock jerks—every touch is like a goddamn miracle to whatever’s coursing in his veins right now.

“It's Merlin, tonight.” 

_Merlin_ is all pale limbs, tousled dark hair, guileless smile. He looks less like a symbol or a dragon or a vessel, and more like just a man. 

Good, he decides. Men bleed. He merely needs to find his knife, keep his head clear only long enough to slip the blade between the king’s ribs.

It’s fine. He’s trained to think on his feet. This is salvageable. It’s just a matter of control.

*

This isn't going precisely as he’d pictured it. He lets his jaw go slack and shivers as Merlin fucks his face.

“Oh,” Merlin says, sliding his thumb into Arthur’s hollowed cheek. 

A pressure on his wrists draws them together behind him. The force feels firm, tightening when he pulls at it. It leaves him vulnerable, with nothing to stop Merlin from placing his steady hand behind Arthur's head and pressing him forward until his cock nudges the back of Arthur's throat, then further still, until Arthur’s nose pushes into Merlin’s belly. 

There’s nothing Arthur can do but rut his desperately leaking dick against Merlin's leg, and everything blurs again. 

*

Merlin presses in all the way, grinds and hits something that lights Arthur's body up. His arms give way. He falls face first into the pillow, arse still in the air, Merlin's cock buried in to the hilt. He struggles up but Merlin puts a hand to the small of his back, the other to his nape, like one might a dog. Arthur shakes his head, no, no, but Merlin's grip is unyielding and he can hardly lift his head from the pillow for air. 

Merlin babbles when he fucks. Arthur can't get out a word, dumb with horror, with pleasure.

"Good," Merlin says at one point, slowing to an unbearable pace. It could be praise, or a question. Arthur shakes his head again, rubs his face into the pillow over and over, lungs screaming. 

“Do you pledge your body, your life, your honor to your king and kingdom?” Arthur feels every inch of Merlin’s dick in him, splitting him apart with aching patience.

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur pants, clenching around him. More. Anything. 

Merlin smoothes circles into Arthur's back with the warm flat of his hand as Arthur shoves himself onto Merlin's cock, harder, harder, until Merlin moves and gives it to him exactly the way he doesn't, doesn't want.

*

“You’re sure you won’t spend the night?” Merlin bends to retrieve Arthur's clothes, spine curving perfectly. Arthur’s hand drags down his own belly. “What's this?”

“Hmm,” Arthur inquires, smearing the come dripping down his thigh.

“This knife isn't regulation,” Merlin chides. 

“Sorry,” Arthur gasps, sliding three fingers at once into his sore slick hole. 

Merlin turns, and his inquisitive gaze goes hungry. 

“You could—reprimand me, sire?” He barely gathers the energy to be shocked at himself, grinding onto his hand. 

His king drops the clothes and the knife and returns to bed.


End file.
